On November 5th, 1990,
a man named El-Sayyid Nosair walked
into a hotel in Manhattan
and assassinated Rabbi Meir Kahane,
the leader of the Jewish Defense League.
Nosair was initially found not guilty of the murder,
but while serving time on lesser charges,
he and other men began planning attacks
on a dozen New York City landmarks,
including tunnels, synagogues
and the United Nations headquarters.
Thankfully, those plans were foiled
by an FBI informant.
Sadly, the 1993 bombing
of the World Trade Center was not.
Nosair would eventually be convicted
for his involvement in the plot.
El-Sayyid Nosair is my father.

I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
in 1983 to him, an Egyptian engineer,
and a loving American mother
and grade school teacher,
who together tried their best
to create a happy childhood for me.
It wasn't until I was seven years old
that our family dynamic started to change.
My father exposed me to a side of Islam
that few people, including the majority of Muslims,
get to see.
It's been my experience that when people
take the time to interact with one another,
it doesn't take long to realize that for the most part,
we all want the same things out of life.
However, in every religion, in every population,
you'll find a small percentage of people
who hold so fervently to their beliefs
that they feel they must use any means necessary
to make others live as they do.

A few months prior to his arrest,
he sat me down and explained that
for the past few weekends, he and some friends
had been going to a shooting range on Long Island
for target practice.
He told me I'd be going with him the next morning.
We arrived at Calverton Shooting Range,
which unbeknownst to our group was being watched
by the FBI.
When it was my turn to shoot,
my father helped me hold the rifle to my shoulder
and explained how to aim at the target
about 30 yards off.
That day, the last bullet I shot
hit the small orange light that sat on top of the target
and to everyone's surprise, especially mine,
the entire target burst into flames.
My uncle turned to the other men,
and in Arabic said, "Ibn abuh."
Like father, like son.
They all seemed to get a really
big laugh out of that comment,
but it wasn't until a few years later
that I fully understood what
they thought was so funny.
They thought they saw in me the same destruction
my father was capable of.
Those men would eventually be convicted
of placing a van filled with
1,500 pounds of explosives
into the sub-level parking lot of the
World Trade Center's North Tower,
causing an explosion that killed six people
and injured over 1,000 others.
These were the men I looked up to.
These were the men I called
ammu, which means uncle.

By the time I turned 19,
I had already moved 20 times in my life,
and that instability during my childhood
didn't really provide an opportunity
to make many friends.
Each time I would begin to feel
comfortable around someone,
it was time to pack up and move to the next town.
Being the perpetual new face in class,
I was frequently the target of bullies.
I kept my identity a secret from my classmates
to avoid being targeted,
but as it turns out, being the
quiet, chubby new kid in class
was more than enough ammunition.
So for the most part, I spent my time at home
reading books and watching TV
or playing video games.
For those reasons, my social skills were lacking,
to say the least,
and growing up in a bigoted household,
I wasn't prepared for the real world.
I'd been raised to judge people
based on arbitrary measurements,
like a person's race or religion.

So what opened my eyes?
One of my first experiences
that challenged this way of thinking
was during the 2000 presidential elections.
Through a college prep program,
I was able to take part
in the National Youth Convention in Philadelphia.
My particular group's focus was on youth violence,
and having been the victim
of bullying for most of my life,
this was a subject in which
I felt particularly passionate.
The members of our group came
from many different walks of life.
One day toward the end of the convention,
I found out that one of the kids I had befriended
was Jewish.
Now, it had taken several days
for this detail to come to light,
and I realized that there was no natural animosity
between the two of us.
I had never had a Jewish friend before,
and frankly I felt a sense of pride
in having been able to overcome a barrier
that for most of my life I had been led to believe
was insurmountable.
Another major turning point came when
I found a summer job at Busch Gardens,
an amusement park.
There, I was exposed to people
from all sorts of faiths and cultures,
and that experience proved to be fundamental
to the development of my character.
Most of my life, I'd been taught
that homosexuality was a sin, and by extension,
that all gay people were a negative influence.
As chance would have it, I had the opportunity
to work with some of the gay performers
at a show there,
and soon found that many were the kindest,
least judgmental people I had ever met.
Being bullied as a kid
created a sense of empathy in me
toward the suffering of others,
and it comes very unnaturally to me
to treat people who are kind
in any other way than how
I would want to be treated.
Because of that feeling, I was able
to contrast the stereotypes I'd been taught as a child
with real life experience and interaction.
I don't know what it's like to be gay,
but I'm well acquainted with being judged
for something that's beyond my control.

Then there was "The Daily Show."
On a nightly basis, Jon Stewart forced me
to be intellectually honest with
myself about my own bigotry
and helped me to realize that a person's race,
religion or sexual orientation
had nothing to do with the quality of one's character.
He was in many ways a father figure to me
when I was in desperate need of one.
Inspiration can often come
from an unexpected place,
and the fact that a Jewish comedian had done more
to positively influence my worldview
than my own extremist father
is not lost on me.

One day, I had a conversation with my mother
about how my worldview was starting to change,
and she said something to me
that I will hold dear to my heart
for as long as I live.
She looked at me with the weary eyes
of someone who had experienced
enough dogmatism to last a lifetime, and said,
"I'm tired of hating people."
In that instant, I realized how much negative energy
it takes to hold that hatred inside of you.

Zak Ebrahim is not my real name.
I changed it when my family decided
to end our connection with my father
and start a new life.
So why would I out myself
and potentially put myself in danger?
Well, that's simple.
I do it in the hopes that perhaps someone someday
who is compelled to use violence
may hear my story and realize
that there is a better way,
that although I had been subjected
to this violent, intolerant ideology,
that I did not become fanaticized.
Instead, I choose to use my experience
to fight back against terrorism,
against the bigotry.
I do it for the victims of terrorism
and their loved ones,
for the terrible pain and loss
that terrorism has forced upon their lives.
For the victims of terrorism, I will speak out
against these senseless acts
and condemn my father's actions.
And with that simple fact, I stand here as proof
that violence isn't inherent in one's religion or race,
and the son does not have to follow
the ways of his father.
I am not my father.